


Blue Sky, Red Moon

by Aceghost (darkalbino)



Series: ♡Tami Collabs♡ (The Minake Is Real Collection) [4]
Category: Persona 3, Persona 5, Persona Series, RRAU - Fandom
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Royalty/Retainer AU, akira "i know that fucker is up to something" kurusu, clothes that call you out on your horniness, goro "don't you wanna go apeshit" akechi, minato "aren't you tired of being a good boy" arisato, one tiny king and the two retainers that he babysits, rrau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 00:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19120630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkalbino/pseuds/Aceghost
Summary: Caged within the stars.





	Blue Sky, Red Moon

**Author's Note:**

> something that started as a trade with tami but turned into a 6.5k monster of metaphors bc akechi can't shut up - also fits conveniently into the "dance" theme for minakeweek (which everyone should check out the blog for [[HERE]](https://minakeweek.tumblr.com/)! bls! we worked hard!) so this is now for minakeweek 👏💕 enjoy!

***

Had Akira’s hand not been attached to his arm and so, subsequently, his shoulder, neck, and face, Minato could have easily mistaken it for someone else’s. Because Akira’s hand is the only one that consistently finds him with purpose. But this time, when those fingers unfold before him, there is no parchment to sign, no sword to cross, and no blood to clean. There is only the white of his glove, from which Minato curiously raises his eyes. “No paper to hand me?”

A hint of a tease in his smile, something more easily caught with no crowd around them and no uniforms between. “Without a desk to write on? Papers will have to wait.”

Minato almost smiles himself, feels the curve of one pull at his lips before he folds them to stifle it, and looks at that hand again. Music, stringed instruments that sing and swell through a golden room with red tapestries that spill down the walls – dull background to the offer of Akira’s hand, where Minato’s gaze is fixed. His chest flutters with anticipation, nearly breathless when his eyes lift with his question, “And so this is…?”

“Tradition, my lord.” 

And just like that, his chest deflates. The hope of something true and heartfelt, reduced once more to _tradition_. Minato’s shoulders lower with a small exhale, the remainders of a smile killed prematurely on his lips. “Right,” he lifts his hand, placing it obediently in his retainer’s. “Of course.”

His consent is meaningless, not only for its lack of emotion but because Akira possesses more than enough strength to sweep him out onto the dance floor regardless of Minato’s opinion on the matter. He tries to smother his disappointment, focusing on the fact that he best pay attention and remember his lessons. Despite how gracefully the long tails and frills of his clothing sway in time with his movements, they only serve as an illusion, a colorful distracter from the truth of one more failure – that for all his royal prowess, Minato has never been the most regal of dancers.  
  
Still, he puts in the effort, following Akira’s lead when he feels that large hand settle across his shoulder blades. He doesn’t want to misstep and trip over their feet. He doesn’t want to make a scathing embarrassment out of them both. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Has the evening been to your liking?”

Minato looks up, not realizing his gaze had drifted down to their feet in his caution to stay on them. “It’s fine,” he tells him, a safe and habitual response. But upon second thought, while observing the neutral smile on Akira’s face, how the glittering room and its star-struck inhabitants are reflected in the glare of his lenses…Minato opens his mouth. “I confess,” he murmurs, low so only Akira can hear, eyeing the solid clasp of their hands, “I don’t really see the point of this.”

Whether he means the empty display of their dancing or the gathering of the ball as a whole is left ambiguous, but the admission still catches Akira off-guard. Minato watches his ever-unreadable expression slip briefly into confusion, and is quietly touched by the vulnerability of it. But then, Akira locks it behind neutrality once more, the flat of his hand curving Minato’s back to spin him in one smooth movement. “Watching their king intermingle with his court lifts the people’s spirits. If the king and his retainer are seen enjoying themselves, then surely there’s no cause for worry.”

For the people, then. For duty and propriety. As it always is. 

Minato can feel their eyes on him, adoration and expectation that sears into him like paper curling beneath the touch of flames. Minato knows the sentiment Akira is conveying, there is nothing he does without considering his obligations to Oratorio. Even so, he can’t help but feel the bitterness curl in his stomach, because the very thing that keeps him grounded amidst a sea of responsibilities that continuously crash against him – 

Minato is powerless to help the one person who has helped him the most. 

“And are you?” Minato shifts his hand, curling his fingers into the broad muscle of Akira’s shoulder at the same moment that he meets his eyes. “Enjoying yourself.” 

This time, Akira’s expression doesn’t change, but his answer comes no more quickly. He steps forward, steps back, guides his king along the proper path as is always expected of him. Akira’s answer comes with the same gravity of emotion that he uses to read his daily reports, “If my lord is unburdened, then so am I.”

Truly, to something like that, Minato would have preferred no response at all. His fingers grip into the fabric over Akira’s shoulder, wrinkling it between his knuckles. “That isn’t….” 

He doesn’t finish. Is it really worth explaining that isn’t what he meant? Akira won’t expose his own feelings, and Minato need only look at the gem placed on the back of his hand to confirm that – a cold and unwavering blue. The exertion of effort from their dancing has barely tinged its edges red, and Minato continues to stare even as they both come to a stop. 

The guests and court members fill the lack of music with their own polite applause. Minato is quiet within that noise, within the warmth of Akira’s hands that does not bleed into the rest of him. He takes one purposeful step back and offers all that he has through a tired little smile. “Thank you, Akira. I hope it’s all as you say.” 

After the emotional drain of that encounter, Minato makes himself as scarce as a king is allowed to be at his own party. His outfit doesn’t do him any good in this endeavor, its risqué design and bright blue jewels catching the eyes and curious fingers of anyone he passes, suffering the prodding of whatever hands he isn’t motivated enough to swat away. Akira is usually in charge of that, but he was pulled aside to mingle with a few governors and their wives who had taken to doting on him. Minato doesn’t mind; any moment Akira is distracted from his duty is surely a moment of peace he could not find at his king’s side. 

He does manage to carve his own little space of quiet near the food bar, beside a tray of lemon squares that seemed unpopular with the crowd, if the number of them left was anything to judge by. He feels almost bad for them, and fully intends to spend at least the next ten minutes pushing each and every one lovingly into his mouth. Minato reaches for the tray, but a sudden darkness that drops over his vision startles him out of that motion. His heart leaps into his throat as the two hands folded over his eyes draw him back against a firm chest, where a whisper can reach down and tickle his ear.  
  
“Your highness should take extra care not to let his guard down tonight, or who knows what scoundrels may sneak upon him?” 

Immediately, there’s relief. He knows that sticky sweet voice. However, Minato still makes a small show of annoyance when he pats Akechi’s hands until they fall away, turning to direct a frown and a crinkled brow up towards his second retainer.

Akechi chuckles playfully behind his fist, eyes closed over his cheery smile. “Especially when he’s presented himself as the impossible – somehow even more alluring than his usual visage.”  
  
Minato hums, fully aware of the fine qualities his clothing highlights, but refusing to indulge in Akechi’s flattery. He doesn’t know the whole of it after all, the scars that burn behind pretty fabric. “More exhausted would be a better description,” he says, turning back to pluck one of the lemon squares he had been eyeing. “I can’t walk five steps without being pulled in one direction or another. I don’t know how Akira manages this sort of thing on a daily basis.”

At the mention of the first retainer, Akechi’s smile briefly slips. His brightness flickers with the threat of a somber shadow, but he is quick to recover himself, brushing the tips of his fingers beneath one of the tassels that hangs below Minato’s shoulder blade. “His performance may suffer if he were required to dress to such extravagance.” 

The imagery of Akira in something like this coaxes a soft snort of amusement, which Minato attempts to stifle with the back of his hand. Akechi, in response, feels his own smile bloom beneath the light of his king’s laughter. “Do you think so?” Minato asks, pushing the small pastry into his mouth.

“Well, I suppose he is rather talented at adapting to the situation,” Akechi presses the flat of his hand over his puffed chest, “but I think I would look better.”

This time, with a mouthful of lemon square, Minato can’t hold back the amusement. His eyes close with the force of his smile around the cake. He should make a contest of it – have them both walk around for a day in ruffly dresses and see if they get as much done. Not a very kingly thought, but Akechi always seems to draw the childishness back out of him. “Be careful, you’ll give me ideas.”

“I do aim to be inspiring.”

“But never quiet it seems.”

Akechi pauses, his bright expression unwavering even as Minato turns curious eyes towards him. “Is that your wish?” he asks, taking one deliberate step forward. Their banter distracts Minato so easily, that it escapes him at times just how much larger Akechi is, needing to lean down a bit to stay at his eye level. “For quiet,” he clarifies. 

Slowly, Minato’s hand falls from his mouth, the dessert long devoured. He did want quiet, that’s why he drifted here to the comfort of food in the first place, but his tease was only meant at Akechi’s eternally talkative expense, not some veiled command. And yet, his reply is delayed, the lack of which Akechi apparently takes as confirmation. He loops his arm through Minato’s and dutifully pulls him from the table.

Minato doesn’t stop him. He does, however, tilt his head and offer a cheeky, “What about the scoundrels?”

Akechi chuckles and reassuringly pats Minato’s hand on his arm. “I assure you, my lord, there is no safer place to be than at my side.”

It takes some tactical avoidance of patrons and guests, but Akechi is able to thread their way to the outdoor balcony. He parts velvet, gold-trimmed curtains with one hand, bowing his head slightly as Minato passes him by. Only, Minato barely makes it a step outside before pausing to frown at the other boy. He raises a hand towards Akechi’s bowed head, but stops halfway to touching it, his fingers curling back into his palm. “You don’t have to accompany me out here, Akechi.”

Akechi is always alone, something Minato had noted lightly in the past but has undoubtedly been exacerbated with the promotion of his role within the palace. His dedication is on par, if not surpassing Akira’s, but at least Minato has seen his first retainer getting along quite well with neighboring governors, with various houses of nobility and their respective retainers alike.  
  
Akechi though…despite his brightly colored confidence and outgoing demeanor, Minato has witnessed no interactions with others beyond cordial conversation. Even in the presence of people that command far more attention, his eyes always seek to hold his king. 

Like the spill of a shadow in the darkness, Minato feels a familiar selfishness seep between his insides, deep and hidden. That same little voice that insisted accepting Akechi’s offer was in Akira’s best interest. The voice that trills with delight when Akechi looks at him like he is all the meaning in the world, when he brings Minato tea and cake simply because he is allowed to do so now. When he laughs and flirts and teases and makes Minato feel like it isn’t a crime to do the same. 

Minato bites the inside of his cheek and steps further out onto the balcony, the tails of his dress moving behind him. “You should go back and enjoy the party. Akira knows the nobility circuit quite well and is rather good friends with a few of them. I’m sure he could introduce you.” 

Akechi raises himself; a single, fluid motion that ends with a self-pitying smile. “Oh my,” he sighs, touching his palm to his cheek, “I appear to have made a nuisance of myself. My king wishes to be rid of me.”

Minato turns, shaking his head. “That isn’t what I meant.” 

He wonders if it should be worrying that he could not bring those same words out for Akira. Would Akira’s face have softened the way Akechi’s does now? Would he have closed the distance between them, step by step, to stand so near that their shoulders touch? Minato grabs onto the intricate railing behind him, steadying himself beneath the gentle adoration of Akechi’s expression.  
  
“If your desire is my happiness, then I am right where I need to be.”

Minato’s mouth parts stupidly, no smart retort beyond that and the slight widening of his eyes. It astounds him, every time, that Akechi can just _say_ things like that. The way he tosses his words out into the air between them so easily, like they won’t shake Minato down to his core with the terrifying notion that he can _mean_ them. How could anyone be happy at his side, forfeiting themselves in order to be constrained entirely to his being? 

And yet…how telling of his desperation to be told such a thing, that the moment Akechi says it and holds out his hand, Minato feels his chest seize as if lightning has struck inside of it.  
  
But. Minato has seen this play out before, so he doesn’t dare to raise his hand nor hopes. He looks down at Akechi’s palm with an expression that nothing can be read from, contrary to the emotion he can feel welling up inside him. Slowly, his gaze travels upward, until it settles, carefully unimpressed upon Akechi’s face. “What’s this?” he demands, certain he already knows the answer: “Tradition?”

And once again, Akechi unravels him with only his words, delivered through a deceptively innocent smile, “That’s probably the most appropriate reason.”

Minato’s heart thuds. Uncertain. Excited. The night air suddenly feels much cooler against the exposed bits of his skin. His fingers curl over the rail in an attempt to stop his trembling, gripping it so hard his knuckles burn white, but he cannot hide the shiver that spills down his spine at the same moment that his eyes fall back to that gloved hand. “And…” he murmurs, struggling not to move, not to grab onto that hand as if it were his only absolution, “the inappropriate reason?”

Akechi’s smile is slow, soft, and deliberate. Instead of waiting for Minato’s hand to meet his, he reaches out for it, gently threading their fingers while holding Minato’s gaze with his own. A stray breeze picks up his hair, brushing his bangs over one eye as he brings their entwined fingers up to his cheek, dragging them over the corner of his lips when he finally answers, “You look cold, highness.”  
  
Minato isn’t. Or, he was, but he certainly isn’t anymore, because heat slowly invades him from what seems like every possible angle; the way it bursts between their hands, or how it spreads across his back with the splay of Akechi’s palm. When his breath tickles Minato’s cheek and incites a warm ache in his chest, bleeding out to the very tips of his fingers. He swallows when Akechi draws him closer, and awkwardly blurts, “There’s no music.”

“Nonsense,” Akechi chuckles, “there is always music if you listen for it.” 

He sets out to prove this, apparently, by pressing their fingers over his chest, where the steady beat of his heart pounds in tandem with the click of their steps on the marble flooring. Akechi closes his eyes, silently prompting Minato to do the same. Heartbeats and footsteps are swept up with the sigh of the wind through the trees, the gentle bubbling of a fountain down below. Night sings around them, sounds that breathe and swell through his senses until Minato can hear something thin and far more delicate threading between, a tune more familiar in both origin and pattern. Akechi’s humming coaxes him to blink his eyes open again, staring up at him in wonder. “That song…”

Akechi hasn’t stopped moving with him, guiding Minato to follow the languid motion of their dancing. He pauses the humming to respond though, tilting his head with a smile, “A favorite of yours? I hear you play it quite often.” His gaze lowers to Minato’s chest, where jewels are shaped into the arced line of a bow and a single arrow locked in place through its center. “The Messiah’s Lament.” 

Minato looks down as well, tracing a literal constellation of gems with his eyes, a near perfect mirroring of the cluster of stars they would see if they angled their heads upward instead. He thinks on Akechi’s words, the path of his steps becoming a little mindless. “I wouldn’t call it a favorite. It’s just…” He presses his lips together, because he can’t quite articulate his connection to that song, to the messiah’s plight. It’s ages old, and one of the more widely known myths, but there is something personal to it that he feels embarrassed about explaining. So instead, he passes it back, “Do you know that story?”

“Sire, I’m hurt! You think I wouldn’t know the tale woven into your very clothing?” A response stuffed with drama and a hearty dose of feigned offense, but Minato knows there is likely a kernel of truth in there. Akechi is something of a walking encyclopedia, having always felt the pressure to know Arisatian history and culture precisely because he was not born Arisatian. Minato frowns a little bit at this thought, but waits attentively for a response, shivering when he feels the climb of Akechi’s hand over the pattern of jewels that cover his back. 

“The manifestation of an ancient messiah’s departure from this world,” Akechi says, his fingers tracing the line of the arrow. “Its crooked trajectory shows indecisiveness and hesitation, the reasons for which his soul never reached heaven.” His hand glides down to the small of Minato’s back, where it hovers across the jewel at the tail-end of the arrow. “Trapped in the night sky for all eternity,” he whispers, gloved fingers just barely tracing the darkening gem before suddenly flinching away, “he can only observe his friends and loved ones from afar,” his hand pulls back further, leaving the gem to revert to its cool, untouched blue, “forever unable to intervene…”

Minato lowers his eyes, his hand loosening slightly within Akechi’s hold. That story and what it means to him always presses upon his emotions as if it were a physical thing, bearing down on him with weight and purpose he knows all too well. A supposed savior entrapped in his own hesitation, crippling indecision and reckless outcomes that left him powerless to do anything for the ones he loved – even when they are so close that he can touch them. 

“At least, that’s the half most people are aware of.” 

His gaze snaps up, alight with both curiosity and confusion. “That’s the story I’ve always heard.”

“You’re unaware, my lord,” Akechi suddenly turns, cinching his arm around the small of Minato’s back when he dips him in a flourish of movement, the ends of his hair tickling Minato’s cheeks as he smiles down at him, “of the hero who dedicated himself to pulling the messiah free from his starry prison?” 

His world might be spinning but Minato has to hand to him, Akechi sells it with such confidence and so convincingly that he manages to make the king pause for a moment in thought, staring blankly back as he tries to recollect the pieces of the story he’s apparently lost somewhere down the line. But then, realization, and Minato huffs with an accusatory, “You made that up.”

Slowly, he can feel Akechi’s hand slide up his back, guiding him to stand on his own feet again. His smile loses none of its luster. “And why should that make it any less true?”

The dancing has stopped, and the new stillness makes Minato far, far too aware of his own body. He can hear his own breathing, shallow and slightly labored as it pushes out from his nose in small, repetitive bursts. His hair is damp with sweat and strands are clinging to his cheeks. His heart is loud. His skin is warm. Akechi’s hands, even gloved, are warmer still. “Truth is what the masses accept it to be, Akechi.”

“But consider the notion that we make our own truths,” Akechi counters, raising one finger in that telltale manner he uses when making his points. But Minato thinks that somehow, he seems a little less steady than usual. “If the hero has indeed set out to save him…and the messiah himself feels freed from his isolation among the stars - why should the opinion of the masses decide it is not so?”  
  
Minato’s lips part, though no sound comes out. His hands gradually slide the breadth of Akechi’s shoulders, stopping at the curves where they meet his throat. 

On the surface, this is truly a pointless conversation – Akechi can be as clever as he likes but no matter how he twists his words, the stars won’t move and endings don’t change. Yet, the underlying context that maybe it can, and that perhaps the savior’s end could be shaped by himself and someone who shows him the way, rather than the masses and their retellings of a sad of and hopeless tale again and again and _again_ …it feels a little like relief. It’s a version that, no matter how impossible, Minato finds he much prefers.

He gives a tiny, only slightly defeated smile, lowering his hands to Akechi’s chest and resting them there. “I suppose it doesn’t. But it’s only a story, in the end.” 

This time, it’s Akechi’s turn to pause; an infinitesimal delay where the line of his mouth flashes with tension. It’s a quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it event, but Minato is always watching his retainer, caught in the thrill of what he will do next because he never knows and that’s what is so unforgivably alluring about Akechi. He’s brought a special kind of chaos that dresses like sensibility, and Minato is always baited by the peek behind the curtain, to see what new way Akechi will ruin his life by granting all the wishes Minato has never dared to speak aloud. 

That beat of silence ends with Akechi lips softened in a frown and his hand settling on Minato’s hip. The air catches in his throat with the grip of Akechi’s fingers that push him back against the rail, leaving him voiceless under its power.

Akechi, on the other hand, still has more to say. “Highness,” he calls, pressing his second hand to the opposite hip, parting Minato’s legs with the gentle nudge of his knee between them, “stories do have their power as well.” His hand snakes up Minato’s side, knuckles trailing over the silky material of his clothes until they brush against Minato’s flushed cheek, the width of Akechi’s thigh spreading him further apart. “Their roots are often tied in reality, after all.”

Minato’s pulse trips. Just how easy is it for Akechi to see through him like that? Minato isn’t afraid of many things; he’s too self-debasing, values himself far too little to be controlled by the typical incarnations of fear. But this? The way Goro Akechi manages to unravel him with a look, a touch, a word – it’s absolutely terrifying. 

Akechi’s thigh between his legs makes his tremble like his body is threatening to shake apart. When Akechi leans down so their foreheads touch, Minato cannot stop himself from clutching onto his white coat for balance, neck craned and mouth quietly sending his name up like a prayer, “Akechi…” 

“My,” Akechi answers, mouth curving back into that warm and playful smile, “I don’t recall ever seeing the color _red_ in the night sky.”

And that’s when Minato notices himself quite literally _aglow_. The gems that had remained a sober blue through the majority of the night were now burning color into his clothing, a series of small stars exploding like fire across the dark expanse of the night sky. Minato touches one of the bright red jewels on his chest in awe, and then remembers his retainer is making fun of him and changes trajectory, reaching up with both hands to grab Akechi’s cheeks. “You’re red too, idiot.”

At this, Akechi blinks, touching his nose self-consciously. “Oh…” 

Minato watches with some amazement as that soft flush bleeds out over Akechi’s cheeks and past his hair, his gloved hand lowering to cover his mouth as he looks away.

 _Did he honestly not realize…?_

For all Minato’s huffing and puffing, this small fracture in Akechi’s composure is enough to pull laughter from his chest – light and airy and effortless, like the ghost of his past self that knew how to smile and play was suddenly allowed to breathe again. Seeing Akechi uncertain and flustered reminds him too much of the past, of stolen ice-cream bars and secret music. Back when Minato would associate him with a pink, food-smeared apron and not the pristine white of his retainer uniform, its belly split open to display the red underneath – a show of rank, pride, and servitude. 

The hold he has on Akechi’s cheeks softens somewhat. He pushes them in so his mouth puckers a little and then smiles fondly when Akechi makes a tiny noise of protest. “It’s strange,” Minato murmurs, so soft it could almost be for himself rather than Akechi, “sometimes you seem like two entirely different people in there.”

This eats at him, just how much Akechi has changed in order to shape himself for this role. But then there are moments like this, where Minato can see glimpses of that chubby kitchen attendant he had grown so fond of, and the gnawing guilt feels a little less painful. 

Minato’s words spark of flash of emotion in Akechi’s eyes, too quick to place a proper name upon. His hand slides over Minato’s on his cheek and then curls to enclose those fingers within his own, the shape of Minato’s ring denting into his palm. “Is that so…” His thigh presses up, eliciting a quiet gasp from his king as he’s lifted onto the balls of his feet, the back of his fingers drawn to Akechi’s lips. “Well, despite its various inhabitants, this body only houses one wish, and that is to remain at his majesty’s side,” a light kiss to his knuckles, and then the lance of Akechi’s gaze through his, “until he’s drawn his last breath.”

Minato trembles. That declaration and the ferocity with which Akechi’s eyes seek to devour him sets his nerves ablaze, burning through his skin and the jewels that absorb its heat. He’s so warm, feels so suddenly alive that it’s nearly dizzying. “You’ll be at my side, even then?”

“Even then.”

There isn’t an ounce of hesitation. Akechi’s vows are as heavy and all-encompassing as the press of his weight upon Minato’s small frame. It’s suffocating in a way Minato should fear, but he gives into it as eagerly as one allows a kiss to steal their breath. His body arcs into Akechi’s, the friction between his legs wracking him with shivers. “Why…”

With Akira, he understands. The chains of tradition, name, and title keep them interlocked. He knows too well Akira’s reasons for staying at his side. But the intensity of Akechi’s devotion, fueled by nothing but his own will, is an enigma that has eluded him since the moment Akechi stepped into his chambers with that nonsensical request to become second retainer.

The railing bruises into his lower back, toes just barely skirting the floor until Akechi replaces that cold, wrought metal with the warm length of his arm, pulling Minato higher along the width of his thigh so he can speak against his ear, “Would you like the appropriate reasons?”

This question again. The offer to keep within everything they were taught. 

Respectability. Modesty. Decency. 

“No.” They’re chest to chest. Minato’s feet are no longer grounded and neither is his sense. His arms throw themselves around Akechi’s neck, yanking him closer despite that there is not a sliver of space left between them. “I’ve had my fill of propriety,” he breathes, the heat of his words exhaling where Akechi’s hair meets his cheek. “I’ve a new hunger.” 

He punctuates this with a roll of his hips, the slow drag of his groin up his retainer’s thigh, his intent in that motion unmistakable. Minato opens his mouth, pulls and tugs at Akechi’s clothes like they’re in the way, like he can’t stand them, like he cannot possibly bring Akechi close enough. “The blame lies entirely in what your hands offer, every time.” 

“Minato…” 

The name slips quietly from his control, with a fragility that suggests it could shatter if not wrapped in the tender intimacy of Akechi’s voice. One hand dents its fingers into the dip of Minato’s spine, the other sliding its way up his torso. In contrast to his king’s frantic, nearly desperate display of hunger, Akechi’s movements remain slow and thoughtful, almost reverent when his fingers reach Minato’s throat. They curl there and gently tip his head, which is all too willing to fall back, releasing a moan that was never meant to be sung aloud. 

This display of trust, the unabashed manner with which Minato succumbs to him has Akechi visibly swallowing. His mouth parts, but offers nothing clever or sharp to pierce the tension swelling dangerously between them. For the entire length of time it takes Akechi’s gloved fingertips to trace Minato’s jaw, to dip ever so slightly into that wet space between his lips and slide back down the curve of his throat, the only sound that can find its way out of him is short and shallow rasps for air. 

It isn’t until his palm falls further, over the plane of Minato’s chest, that Akechi’s voice finds words again. Though no smile through which he can filter their meaning. “Indeed my hands are to blame.” His gaze is transfixed on the path of his hand, the glowing gems that brighten further beneath the drag of his palm. “For wherever I lay them upon you…”  
  
There’s red in his eyes, upon Minato’s chest, beneath his hand and across their skin. 

Like roses. 

Like fire. 

Like blood.

Akechi breathes, shaky, “I intend to leave red in their wa-“

“Haven’t interrupted something, have I?”

Minato jolts at Akira’s voice, limbs and expression freezing as if ice water had just been dumped onto them. The fire that Akechi had spurned to life is doused by the cold wash of reality, leaving only the pounding of his heart behind, beating now for an entirely different reason than excitement. 

Akechi, too, has slipped from his flushed cheeks and ragged breathing, back into control and its ever present smile. “Not at all,” he answers. 

Akechi moves so calmly, methodically pulling a frozen Minato’s hands from his clothing, carefully sliding him down as he draws his leg back from between his thighs. His movements are so slight and slow as to almost be imperceptible, and in the aftermath Minato is left under the cool cast of his shadow, completely obscured from Akira’s sight. 

Akechi places one hand on his shoulder, the other rising to his own lips. Minato understands – Akechi is buying time for him to collect himself – but he can’t help the small sound of protest in his throat when Akechi turns his head away from him to smile at Akira over his shoulder. “Though I’m certain an affirmation would do little to stop your interruptions. They are of the utmost importance, after all.”  
  
The curtain falls back into place as Akira passes through it, taking sure and steady steps towards them. “For once, I’d be inclined to agree with you, but you aren’t the one I’m looking for.” 

Akechi’s eyes lid over his smile. “Am I ever?”

“Move aside.” 

“Now, now,” he chides, waving one hand in front of Akira while squeezing Minato’s shoulder with the other, “there’s no need for hostility. He’s been perfectly safe in my hands and away from all the noise.” With a single motion, Akechi steps to the side and holds out his arm, presenting Minato completely intact behind him. “Please show Kurusu you are not bleeding anywhere, my lord, before he lops my head off.”

Indeed, Minato can attest to that: there is not a scratch on him. However, bodily injury isn’t the problem here. Akira’s sharp grey eyes are drawn to the constellation of gems still glowing red across his body, and clothing that leaves very little to the imagination. Minato can feel that gaze slip into him like the point of a knife, until it peels back out and turns on Akechi. “What were you doing?” 

_To him_ goes left unsaid, but not unheard. Minato's skin prickle with nerves. He can’t even bring himself to look Akira in the eye, knowing what he had been doing with his second retainer mere moments ago, but that same retainer is quick to throw himself in Akira’s line of fire. 

“Dancing,” Akechi replies, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and not an answer that would earn him a frown and an arched brow. 

“To what?” Akira pauses to emphasize the lack of music around them. “The sound of your own voice?”

Yes. Actually. 

Minato can sense that this isn’t going anywhere good. Akechi hadn’t lied, technically, but Minato would like an end to this before Akira delves any further into that bit of truth. Despite his questionable appearance, he steps between them with a distinctly unimpressed look aimed at both retainers. “Stop bickering, you can see I’m fine.” Any lingering passion is thoroughly snuffed out as he plays the role of mediator, raising his eyes to Akira with a tiny exhale. “Is there something that needs my attention?”

There’s a moment of quiet where Akira seems to weigh his options, considering the value of indulging his competitive side, but ultimately responds to his king. “The guests do wish to know where you had disappeared to, milord. But in truth, when I could not find you…” Some of the severity in his expression softens, his gaze moving over Minato’s hair and the fading color of those jewels. “I’m glad to see you safe. Please,” Akira smiles a little, brushing the tips of his fingers just barely across the back of Minato’s hand, “don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Minato twitches at the spark of contact. Beside him, Akechi sighs and plants a hand on his waist. “Goodness, Kurusu, it’s the balcony not the moon.” 

The _look_ Akira throws him – Minato thinks whipping his entire sword out against Akechi’s nose would have been less threatening. 

“I don’t recall asking for your input. A proper retainer knows when to shut up.”

Never one to be outdone, Akechi sharpens his own gaze and his smile, meeting Akira with a threat of a different sort. “Have you considered he’s had enough of propriety?” 

Minato cannot possibly intervene fast enough. “I see you’ve _both_ considered ignoring my wish to cease the arguing.”

“Apologies, my lord.”

“Apologies, highness.” 

He brings both hands up to his face, closing his eyes as he cups them over his nose and mouth. What possessed him to ever think two retainers was a good idea? His eyes slide open and find the both of them waiting quietly, obediently. Minato slowly exhales into his hands, the heat of his frustration riding out of him on that breath and reigniting the spaces of his palms where Akechi had been gripped only minutes ago, over the tips of his fingers where Akira had delicately reached out to him.

His hands come together and he lowers them calmly, pressing one to his chest. “Akira, I’m sorry for worrying you. That was not my intent. But Akechi is also not to blame; it was my decision to leave.”  
  
Minato can feel Akechi’s eyes on him, wide and uncomprehending. It feels good, every now and then, to be able to turn expectations on someone who seems to live five steps ahead. Akechi is always so willing to take the lion’s share of culpability, jump in front of the bullet, soil his hands in some misguided effort to stain them as deeply as Akira’s. At least in this, Minato can take the role of protector, if only for a moment. 

“I’m fine now,” he assures. 

Akira has doubts, that much is easy to see, but if this is what Minato wants then he can do little more than bow his head in response. “As you will, my lord,” he concedes, and then raises his eyes, sharp and focused behind his lenses. “However, I ask that next time,” Akira’s arm folds around Minato’s shoulders, pulling him closer and away from Akechi, “you find me first. For now, I think it will be in everyone’s best interest if you returned to the party.” 

Minato watches Akira hold his arm out, a prompt he knows by heart. “Yes…” he curls his own arm around it, so he can be guided back inside, away from starlight and distraction. 

Akechi is left behind with an expression that falls more somber with each step taken further away from him. Where they had been clasped behind his back, his hands slip forward, dropping to his sides. His head dips, long hair brushing past his cheek before he absently pushes it back again with a quiet sigh. 

Defeat was not a good look on him and neither was weakness. Hurt, even less so. 

“Akechi?” 

With a start, Akechi looks up, and Minato can see the surprise plain on his face when he finds his king at the balcony curtains, hand outstretched – waiting for him. 

There’s a language to the smiles Akechi wears, and Minato has learned to read them well. The complacent one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the strained one where you can see tension locked into the edges of his jaw. Another which is a lie, its corner cut open by the slightest baring of teeth. 

But this one is a rare display of unabashed happiness, where plasticity and appearance melt away, leaving scrunched eyes and a smile so bright it feels as if it could pierce through the shadows. It’s real and honest. It’s Minato’s favorite.

It’s how he imagines a hero might smile, when he reaches across the stars to take the savior’s hand.


End file.
